Part 21

"Nay, indeed, I cannot," said the former, now pausing in her work, and looking laughingly at her mistress. "Perhaps from the Count Desmartine, or from Dufour, or Dubois."

"No, no, no," replied the queen, laughing; "neither of these, Maria; but I will have compassion on your curiosity, and tell you. Would you believe it?--it is from Chatelard, the poet."

"Chatelard!" repeated the maiden, in amazement. "What in all the earth can have brought him here?"

"Nay, I know not," said the queen, blushing, for she guessed, or rather feared, the cause. "But read, and judge for yourself," she added, handing her attendant the letter, which contained a very beautiful laudatory poem, full of passion and feeling, addressed to herself, and which the writer concluded by requesting that he might be permitted to form part of her court; declaring that it would be joy inexpressible to him to be near her person--he cared not in how mean a capacity. The having opportunities of seeing and serving her, he said, would reconcile him to any degradation of rank--to any loss, save that of honour.

"In truth, very pretty verses," said the lady-in-waiting, returning the poem to the queen; "but, methinks, somewhat over-bold."

"Why, I do think so too, Maria," replied Mary. "Chatelard rather forgets himself; but poets, you know, have a license, and I cannot be harsh to the poor young man. It would be cruel, ungenerous, and unworthy of me."

"But what say you, madam, to his request to be attached to your court?"

"Really, as to that, I know not well what to say, indeed," rejoined the queen. "Chatelard, you know, Maria, is a gentleman, both by birth and education. He is accomplished in a very high degree, and of a graceful person and pleasing manners, and would thus do no discredit to our court; but, I fear me, he might be guilty of some indiscretions--for he is a child of passion as well as song--that might lead himself into danger, and bring some blame on me. Still, I cannot think of rejecting altogether his humble suit, so prettily preferred; and, if he would promise to conduct himself with becoming gravity and reserve in all matters, and at all times, I should have no objection that he was attached to our court. I will, at all events, make trial of him for a short space."

Having said this, the queen, now addressing the ladies present generally, went on--

"Ladies, I will shortly introduce to you a new gallant; but I pray ye take care of your hearts; for he is, I warrant ye, one especially given to purloining these little commodities. He is handsome, accomplished, and a poet; so mind ye, ladies, I have warned you--be on your guard. Kerr," she now called out to a page in waiting, "go to the hostelry whence this letter came, and say to the gentleman by whom it has been sent, that we desire to see him forthwith. Let him accompany you, Kerr."

The page instantly departed; and we will avail ourselves of his short absence on this mission, to say briefly who Chatelard was--what was his object in coming to the Scottish court--and of what nature were the fears which the queen expressed regarding him.

Chatelard, then, was a young French gentleman of rank, of rare accomplishments, and a poet of very considerable excellence. His seeking to attach himself to Mary's court, was the result of a violent and unhappy attachment to her person; and her fears for him, proceeding from a suspicion of this attachment, were, that he would commit himself by some rash expression of his feelings. She was displeased with his presumptuous love, yet found she could not, as a woman, but look on it with pity and compassion and hence her disposition to treat with kindness and affability its unhappy victim. Prudence, indeed, would certainly have dictated another course than what Mary pursued with Chatelard, in thus admitting him to her presence; but Mary's error here was an error of the heart, and more to be regretted than blamed.

In a short while after the messenger had been despatched with the invitation to Chatelard, the door of the queen's apartment was thrown wide open, and that person entered. His bow to the queen was exceedingly graceful; and not less so, though measured with scrupulous exactness in their expression of deference, were those he directed to her ladies. Chatelard's countenance was at this instant suffused with a blush, and it was evident he was under the excitement of highly-agitated feelings; but he lost not, for a moment, nor in the slightest degree, his presence of mind; neither did these feelings prevent him conducting himself at this interview with the most perfect propriety.

"Chatelard," said the queen, after the ceremonies of a first salutation were over, "I perceive you have lost none of your cunning in the gentle craft. These were really pretty lines you sent me--choice in expression, and melodiously arranged. I assure thee it is a very happy piece."

"How could it be otherwise, madam," replied Chatelard, bowing low, "with such a subject?"

"Nay, nay," said Mary, laughing and blushing at the same time, "I am no subject, Chatelard, but an anointed queen. Thou canst not make a subject of me."

Chatelard now in turn blushed, and said, smiling, "Your wit, madam, has thrown me out; but, avoiding this play on words, my position is good, undeniable. All men acknowledge it."

"Go to--go to, Chatelard--thou wert ever a flatterer. But 'tis a poet's trade. Thou art a dangerous flatterer, however; for thou dost praise so prettily that one cannot suspect thy sincerity, nor be angry with thee, even when thou deservest that they should. But enough of this in the meantime. Thou mayst now retire; and I think the sooner the better, for the safety of these fair maidens' hearts, and your own peace of mind, which a longer stay might endanger. Our chamberlain will provide thee with suitable apartments, and see to thy wants. Mark," she added, laughingly, "we retain thee in our service in the capacity of our poet--of court poet--a high and honourable appointment; and thy reward shall be the smiles and approbation of these fair ladies--the beauty of all and each of whom I expect thou wilt forthwith embalm in immortal verse."

Chatelard, bowing, was now about to retire, when the queen, again addressing him, said, "We will send for thee again in the afternoon, to bear us company for awhile, when thou wilt please bring with thee some of thy newest and choicest madrigals."

Expressing a deep sense of the honour proposed to be conferred on him, of the queen's kind condescension, and avowing his devotedness to her service, Chatelard withdrew, and was provided with the promised apartments by the express orders of Mary herself. To these apartments we shall follow the enthusiastic but audacious lover. On being left alone, Chatelard again fell into one of those reveries which we have already described, and again launched into that strain of extravagant adulation which, on another occasion, we represented him as indulging in. Again he compared Mary, in his incoherent ravings, to everything that is beautiful in earth, sea, and sky; but comparing her to these only that he might assert how far she surpassed them. There were mingled, too, with his eulogiums, on this occasion, expressions of that imprudent passion which subsequently at once urged him to commit the most daring offences, and blinded him to their consequences. Poor Chatelard's ravings, in the instance of which we are just speaking, were unconsciously uttered; but they were unfortunately loud enough to arrest the attention of the domestics, who were passing to and fro in the lobby into which the door of his apartment opened. These, attracted by his rapturous exclamations, listened, from time to time, at his door, and were highly amused with the rhapsodies of the imprudent poet. The latter, becoming more and more vehement, and, in proportion, more entertaining, the domestics finally gathered in a cluster around the door, to the number of six or eight, and, with suppressed laughter, overheard all that the excited and unguarded inmate chose to utter. That, however, was so incoherent, or at least of so high-flown a character, that the listeners could make nothing of it; and, as they could not, they immediately concluded it to be nonsense, and the speaker a madman. But there came one to the spot, at this unfortunate moment, who, with sharper intellect and more apt comprehension, at once discovered the meaning that lurked under the florid language of the poet's ill-timed soliloquies.

While the servants were crowded around the door of Chatelard's apartment, too intent on their amusement to notice the approach of any one, another party, we say, had advanced to within a few paces of where they stood. Here, with his arms folded across his breast, he had remained observed for several seconds, gazing with a look of surprise and displeasure on the merry group assembled around the poet's door. He was, however, at length discovered, when the knot of listeners instantly broke up in the greatest hurry and alarm.

"How now," exclaimed the unexpected intruder--a person of about thirty years of age, of rather slender form, of cold and haughty demeanour, and austere countenance--"How now?" he exclaimed, in a voice whose tones were naturally severe--"what means this idling?--what do ye all here, knaves, in place of attending to your duties?"

Instead of answering this question, the terrified domestics were now endeavouring to make off in all directions; but the querist's curiosity, or perhaps suspicion, having been excited by what he had seen, he instantly arrested their progress, by calling on them, in a voice of increased severity and vehemence, to stop.

"Come hither, Johnstone," he exclaimed, addressing one of the fugitives--"I must know what you have been all about." And, without waiting for an answer, "Who occupies this apartment?" he inquired, pointing to that in which was Chatelard.

"And please ye, my lord," replied Johnstone, bowing with the most profound respect--"ane that we think's no very wise. He's been bletherin awa there to himsel, saving yer honour's presence, like a bubbly-jock, for this half-hour back, and we can neither mak tap, tail, nor mane o' what he's sayin."

"What! a madman, Johnstone?" said the Earl of Murray, the queen's half-brother, for it was no less a personage; then hurriedly added, "Who is he?--what is he?--where is he from?--when came he hither?"

The man answered categorically--

"I dinna ken, my lord, wha he is; but, frae the thinness o' his chafts, I tak him to be ane o' your French laun-loupers. He cam to the palace about twa hours syne."

The earl's curiosity was now still further excited, and, without saying a word more, he drew near to the door of Chatelard's apartment, and became also an auditor of the poor poet's unguarded language; but not such as it was in the case of the listeners who had preceded him; to him that language was perfectly intelligible--at least to the extent of informing him of Chatelard's ambitious love. To Murray this was a secret worth knowing; and, in the hope that he might discover this attachment to be reciprocal, and thus acquire an additional influence over the queen, his sister, at the expense of her reputation, he considered it a singularly fortunate incident. Perhaps he expected that it would do even more for him than this: that it would eventually help him to the accomplishment of certain daring views towards the crown itself, of which he was not unsuspected. Whether, however, he was able to trace, in distinct and definite lines, any consequences favourable to himself from the fact which had just come to his knowledge, it is certain he was pleased with the discovery, and considered it as an important acquisition. That he viewed it in this light, indeed, was evident even by his countenance, cautiously guarded as its expressions ever were.

On being satisfied of the fact of Chatelard's attachment to the queen, he withdrew from the door with a look and brief expression of satisfaction, and went directly in quest of the chamberlain. On finding whom--

"So, Mr Chamberlain," he said, "we have got, I find, another animal added to our herd of fawning, drivelling courtiers. Pray, who or what is he, this person who has taken up his quarters in the northern gallery, and by whose authority has he been installed there?"

"By the queen's, my lord," replied the chamberlain. "I have had express and direct orders from the queen herself, to provide the gentleman with apartments in the palace, and to see to his suitable entertainment."

"Ah, indeed," said the earl, biting his lip, and musing for a moment. "By her own express orders!" he repeated. "It is very well." Then, after a pause--"Know ye this favoured person's name, Mr Chamberlain?"

"Chatelard," replied the latter.

"Chatelard! Chatelard!" repeated the earl, mechanically, and again musing; "why, I think I have heard of that gallant before. He is one of those triflers called poets, me-thinks--a versifier, a scribbler of jingling rhymes. Is it not so?"

"I have heard the queen say so, my lord," replied the chamberlain. "She has spoken of him in my hearing as a poet."

"Ah! the same, the same," said the earl; "but how obtained he access to the queen, know ye?"

"Through his own direct application, my lord. He addressed a poetical epistle to her majesty, I understand, from Goodal's hostelry, where he had taken up his quarters in the first place, requesting permission to wait upon her."

"And it was granted?" interrupted the earl.

"It was, my lord; and he has already had an audience."

"Ah! so!" said the earl, without yet betraying, or having, during any part of this conversation, betrayed, the slightest emotion or symptom of the deep interest he took in the communications which were being made to him. "Know ye," he went on, "if that favour is to be soon again conferred on him? When will he again be admitted to the presence?"

"That, my lord, rests on the queen's pleasure; but I hear say that he is to attend her again this evening in her sitting apartment."

"So, so," said the earl, nodding his head, as he uttered the words. And, turning on his heel, he walked away without further remark.

From the officer with whom he had just been speaking, the Earl of Murray carefully concealed the motives which had prompted his inquiries, but determined, henceforth, to watch with the utmost vigilance the proceedings of the queen and Chatelard, until some circumstance should occur that might put them both fairly within his power. Unaware of the dangerous surveillance under which he was already placed, it was with a delight which only he himself perhaps could feel, that Chatelard received, in the evening, the promised invitation from the queen to attend her and her ladies in their sitting chamber. The invitation was conveyed in some playful verses--an art in which Mary excelled--written on embossed paper. The enthusiastic poet read the delightful lines a thousand times over, dwelt with rapture on each word and phrase, and finally kissed the precious document with all the eagerness and fervour of a highly-excited and uncontrollable passion. Having indulged in these tender sensibilities for some time, Chatelard at length folded up the unconscious object of his adoration, thrust it into his bosom, took up a small _portfeuille_, covered with red morocco leather, gilt, and embossed, the depository of his poetical effusions, and hurried to the apartment of the queen, where he was speedily set to the task of reading his compositions, for the entertainment of the assembled fair ones; and it is certain that on more than one of them the tender and impassioned manner of the bard, as he recited his really beautiful verses, added to his highly prepossessing appearance and graceful delivery, made an impression by no means favourable to their night's repose. It would, however, perhaps be more tedious than interesting to the reader, were we to detail all that passed on the night in question in the queen's apartment; to record all the witty and pleasant things that were said and done by the queen, her ladies, and her poet. Be it enough to say, that the latter retired at a pretty late hour; his imprudent passion, we cannot say increased--for of increase it would not admit--but strengthened in its wild and ambitious hopes.

From that fatal night, poor Chatelard firmly believed that his love was returned--that he had inspired in the bosom of Mary a passion as ardent as his own. Into this unhappy error the poet's own heated and disturbed imagination had betrayed him, by representing in the light of special marks of favour, occurrences that were merely the emanations of a kind and gentle nature--thus fatally misled by a passion which, if notorious for occasioning groundless fears, is no less so for inspiring unfounded hopes. Such, at any rate, was its effect in the case of Chatelard on the night in question. On gaining his own chamber, he flung himself into a chair, and spent nearly the whole of the remainder of the night in the indulgence of the wildest and most extravagant dreams of future bliss; for, in the blindness of his passion and tumult of his hopes, he saw no dangers, and feared no difficulties.

From this time forward, Chatelard's conduct to the queen became so marked and unguarded in various particulars, as to excite her alarm, and even to draw down upon the offender some occasional rebukes, although these were at first sufficiently gentle and remote. Nor did the imprudences of the infatuated poet escape the cold, keen eye of Murray. He saw them, and noted them; but took care to wear the semblance of unconsciousness. It was not his business to interrupt, by hinting suspicions, the progress of an affair which he hoped would, on some occasion or other, lead to consequences that he might turn to account. Feeling this, it was not for him to help Chatelard and the queen to elude his vigilance, and defeat his views, by discovering what he observed, and thus putting them on their guard. This was not his business; but it was his business to lie concealed, and to spring out on his quarry the instant that its position invited to the effort. Coldly and sternly, therefore, he watched the motions of Chatelard and his sister; but was little satisfied to perceive nothing in the conduct of the latter regarding the former which at all spoke of the feelings he secretly desired to find. As it was impossible, however, for the earl personally to watch all the movements of Chatelard, he looked around him for some individual of the queen's household whom he might bribe to perform the duties of a spy; and such a one he found amongst the attendants whom Mary had brought with her from France, of which country he was also a native. The name of this ungrateful and despicable wretch, who undertook to betray a kind and generous mistress, whenever he should discover anything in her conduct to betray, was Choisseul--a man of pleasing manners and address, but of low and vicious habits. Without any certain knowledge of his character, or any previous information regarding him, the Earl of Murray's singular tact and penetration at once singled him out as a likely person for his purposes. On this presumption, he sent for him, and, cautiously and gradually opening him up, found that he had judged correctly of his man.

"Choisseul," he said, on that person being ushered into his presence, "I have good reason to think that you are one in whom I may put trust; and, in this assurance, I have selected you for an especial mark of my confidence. Do you know anything of this Chatelard, who has lately come to court?"

"I do, my lor'. He is countryman of my own."

"So I understand. Well, then, I'll tell you what it is, Choisseul: I believe the fellow has come here for no good--I believe, in short, that he has designs upon the queen. Now, my good fellow, will you undertake to ascertain this for me? Will you watch their proceedings, watch them narrowly, and give me instant information of anything suspicious that may come to your knowledge--and ye shall not miss of your reward?" added the earl, now opening a little desk which stood before him, and taking from it a well-filled purse.

Choisseul, with many bows and grimaces, readily undertook to play the knave, and, with still more, took the price of his knavery, the purse already alluded to, which the earl now handed him.

"Now, Choisseul," said Murray, just before dismissing the miscreant, "I may depend on you?"

"Mine honneur," replied the Frenchman, placing his hand on his breast, with a theatrical air, and bowing to the ground as he pronounced the words--"Je suis votre serviteur till die."

"Enough," said the earl, waving his hand as a signal to him to retire; "be vigilant and prompt in communicating with me when you have anything of consequence to say."

Choisseul again bowed low, and left the apartment. In the meantime, the gallant, accomplished, but imprudent Chatelard, hurried blindly along by the impetuosity of his passion, and altogether unsettled by the intoxicating belief that his love was returned--a belief which had now taken so fast a hold of his understanding that nothing could loosen it--proceeded from one impropriety to another, till he at length committed one which all but brought matters to a crisis; and this was avoided only by its having escaped the vigilance of Choisseul, and having been compassionately concealed by the queen herself.

On retiring one night, early in February, 1563, to her sleeping apartment, Mary and her attendants were suddenly alarmed by an extraordinary movement in a small closet or wardrobe, in which was kept the clothes the queen was in the habit of daily using. The maids would have screamed out and fled from the apartment, but were checked in both these feminine resorts by observing the calm and collected manner of their mistress, in which there was not the slightest appearance of perturbation.

"Ladies, ladies," she exclaimed, laughingly, as her attendants were about to rush out of the room, "what a pretty pair of heroines ye are! Shame, shame! ye surely would not leave your mistress alone, in the midst of such a perilous adventure as this. Come hither," she added, at the same time stepping towards her toilet, and taking up a small silver lamp that burned on it, "and let us see who this intruder is--whether ghost or gallant."

Saying this--her maids having returned, reassured by her intrepidity--she proceeded, with steady step, towards the suspected closet, seized the door by the handle, flung it boldly open, and discovered, to the astonished eyes of her attendants, and to her own inexpressible amazement, the poet Chatelard, armed with sword and dagger. For some seconds the queen uttered not a syllable; but a flush of indignation and of insulted pride suffused her exquisitely lovely countenance.

"Chatelard," she at length said, in a tone of calm severity, and with a dignity of manner becoming her high state and lineage, "come forth and answer for this daring and atrocious conduct, this unheard-of insolence and presumption." Chatelard obeyed, and was about to throw himself at her feet, when she sternly forbade him.

"I want no apologies, presumptuous man," she said--"no craving of forgiveness. I want explanation of this infamous proceeding, and that I demand of you in the presence of my attendants here. Know ye not, sir," she went on, "that your head is forfeited by this offence, and that I have but to give the word, and the forfeit will be exacted?"

"I know it, I know it," exclaimed Chatelard, persisting in throwing himself on his knees; "but the threat has no terrors for me. It is your displeasure alone--fairest, brightest of God's creatures--that I fear. It is----"